


Separation Without

by Meltha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-10
Updated: 2011-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-25 21:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meltha/pseuds/Meltha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the death of Lily and James and the jailing of Sirius, Remus feels betrayed and alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Separation Without

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters are owned by J. K. Rowling, a wonderful author whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.

“It’s nearly an hour until moonrise, Remus,” Dumbledore said gently. “I’m deeply sorry to disturb you, but I’m afraid I must ask you to come with me.”

Remus nodded, the action automatic but tired. He’d utterly lost track of time, not knowing or caring how many hours had slipped past since Dumbledore had sent him a portkey to Hogwarts via Fawkes. The startling notes of phoenix song in his rundown flat had been enough to startle even him from his inability to care about anything except, perhaps, raising the next glass of Ogden’s to his lips. The note that had accompanied the simple feather Fawkes bore had been brief.

 _Dear Remus,_

 _Please accept my hospitality for the next three days, unless, of course, you have made other preparations. I promise you every precaution will be taken so that no one will be harmed. The portkey is timed to leave fifteen minutes from its arrival. I assure you, you will have complete privacy._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Albus_

Some vague part of Remus’s brain had realized that Dumbledore was right, that when the transformation came this month he would probably be more dangerous than usual, and the thought of more blood being spilled was enough to rouse him to pack a bag of necessities (in truth, he owned little but necessities), summoning clothing and toiletries from the bathroom while Fawkes looked on, warbling softly. He wondered dully if he would have been moved to comply with Dumbledore’s suggestion without the effects of phoenix song.

When he had finished, he took hold of the feather and waited for the familiar tug behind his naval. The flat was silent. It was the kind of heavy quiet that is heard only in places where despair lives, spreading through the air like the rancid scent of mildew.

He hadn’t gone in the bedroom since it happened.

The pull happened without preliminary, and Remus was whirling through space, the disorienting blur of colors passing almost without his noticing. Abruptly, he landed on the floor of a circular room. Dumbledore’s office, he realized. No one else was in the room. A variety of portrait frames encircled the walls, but all of them quite empty; Dumbledore was being true to his word about granting him his privacy. Remus hadn’t been in this room since the time the four of them were sent here for trying to set fire to the Slytherin common room in fifth year. The four of them…

James and Peter were dead now, and Sirius was worse than dead. Only Remus remained, and he felt as dead as his two friends.

He had remained sitting in a chair before the Headmaster’s desk for however long he had been there, hardly noting that at some point Fawkes had returned to his roost and would occasionally look at him quizzically. Things had remained that way until Dumbledore’s soft voice had spoken. Remus hadn’t heard him enter the room.

“Just this way,” Dumbledore said as he led the way to the revolving staircase. “One of the House-elves will see to your belongings.”

Remus followed, a pace behind him, through the school. He dreaded the possibility that Dumbledore was considering putting him back in the Shrieking Shack, but he was relieved to find that instead he was being led into the basement.

“Our Potions teacher is currently away,” Dumbledore said by way of explanation as they descended the stairs, “and I’ve taken the liberty of putting her belongings into storage for the time being, with her permission of course, so the office and living quarters are empty. I’ve fortified them with spells to make them impregnable. I assure you, you have no cause to worry about anyone’s safety.”

“Thank you,” Remus managed to say.

In a few minutes, they were outside the door of the Potions Master’s quarters. Dumbledore opened the door, then checked the time on his unusual pocket watch.

“You still have roughly an hour before the moon will rise,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to make your stay more comfortable? Water, perhaps, or something to eat?”

“No, thank you,” he replied, glancing around the empty room. The walls were thick stone, and the door was reinforced with iron. Yes, this should suffice.

“Very well, then,” Dumbledore said. “If you remember anything else you might require…”

“There’s nothing,” Remus interrupted, keeping his back to the Headmaster. “Just bolt the door.”

Dumbledore said nothing for a moment, then added, a note of sadness in his voice, “I shall see you in the morning. Perhaps we might talk a bit then, if you’re feeling up to it.”

The door closed a few seconds later, and Remus heard a variety of locks slip into place. Good, he thought. Trust was a dangerous business, especially when dealing with evil. He took his clothes off, putting them in a pile in the corner. The cold of the stone bit into his bare feet, making him feel far too sober. The minutes ticked away, and when moonrise came, Remus felt it in his blood before the transformation occurred. Pain added to pain, and the last thing he remembered before his humanity slid away entirely was screaming, the sound echoing off the walls, almost but not quite obliterating the faint ticking of a human heartbeat standing vigil outside the door.

Morning came, and he was himself once more. Remus awoke to pain wracking through his body and his mind equally. His eyes opened to a red smear across the stone floor, and it took him a moment to realize how badly he had injured himself. He wasn’t sure he could move at all. He could hear bolts sliding back on the other side of the door, and the faint hum of protective enchantments in the air dissolved slowly. The heavy door creaked slowly open.

“Remus?” asked Dumbledore’s voice tentatively. “May I… oh, merciful heavens, no!”

The door was immediately thrown open, and Remus found himself being carefully rolled over. He caught sight of Dumbledore’s horrified face just before passing out.

Remus awoke for the second time that day, but the scenery had changed. He was in a bed in the Hospital Wing, the cool white cotton of the sheets and the softness of the feather mattress a remarkable difference from the cold stone of his earlier confinement. He almost thought he would have preferred the Potions quarters again. They fit his state of mind more aptly. As his eyes began to focus, he realized Madam Pomfrey was sitting beside him, anxiously tending his bandages.

“Awake, are we?” she said, smiling at him. “Do you think you can manage some water?”

He didn’t care, but it was too much effort to fight her. The water from the carafe beside the bed felt cool and clean, but only half of it went down before he was vomiting it back up again.

“Easy there,” Madam Pomfrey said. “No need to gulp it down like a ravening…”

She stopped dead, aware of what she had almost said.

“Wolf,” Remus finished for her. “It’s a difficult habit to break, I’m afraid.”

She blushed, embarrassed at her misstep.

“The Headmaster asked to be informed when you woke. I’ll be back soon,” she said, and he listened to the sounds of her footsteps clicking briskly against the stone floors.

It occurred to him that there must be children somewhere about, but he couldn’t hear them. Then he remembered: Hogwarts students had been given a one week holiday to go home and celebrate the demise of Voldemort with their families. Only the barest few would be here, the ones who had lost everyone and had no homes to go back to and no friends to take them in for a brief visit to enjoy freedom from constant terror. Everyone would be happy, he supposed: everyone except Peter Pettigrew’s family.

He was vomiting again.

By the time Dumbledore arrived, Remus had managed to clean himself up reasonably well with the rest of the water from the carafe. He still felt terribly sick and weak, though.

“How are you?” he asked, and Remus was strangely relieved to hear his voice was calm and steady instead of pitying.

“Better,” he lied, “thank you.”

Dumbledore gave him a deeply searching look, and Remus knew that he saw through him in the way he always did.

“You must be feeling hungry,” Dumbledore said. “I believe when you attended here you preferred a bacon buttie in the mornings after your transformation. I’ll ask the kitchen to send you up one along with some tea, if you think you can stomach it.”

Remus nodded, staring at the opposite wall as Dumbledore left. The sun was up quite high from what he could tell by the shadows on the wall. It must be nearly 11:00. The soft patter of a House-elf’s footsteps came and then went again, quickly followed by Dumbledore’s heavier tread.

“Would you mind if I eat with you?” Dumbledore asked. “I haven’t had the chance for a bite yet, and I’ve always found eating breakfast alone quite unpleasant.”

I suppose it will be, Remus thought. He suddenly realized that, except when he had been away on missions for the Order, he had never actually eaten breakfast alone since before he turned eleven. The hunger that always gnawed at his insides during the full moon stopped dead in its tracks, and the mere smell of the bacon became sickening.

“I know you probably don’t feel like eating,” Dumbledore said, “but Poppy assures me that it’s very necessary if you’re to replenish the blood you lost last night. The potions she has given you, though you may not remember drinking them in your state, will help, but few things can replace genuine food, especially when one is exhausted.”

“I’ve no appetite,” Remus said, his voice gray.

“I suppose not,” Dumbledore said, sighing heavily. “Sometimes, though, I have found we must swallow things that are unpleasant if we wish to survive.”

“I’m not a student at your school anymore,” Remus suddenly lashed out. “This isn’t a lesson, and you can’t possibly understand what this is like!”

Dumbledore was taken aback for a moment, but his features softened almost at once.

“You are quite right, of course,” Dumbledore said. “Forgive me if I spoke to you as though you were a child. It’s a habit I’m afraid I’ve acquired from speaking to the students… and occasionally from speaking to the teachers. It really is quite amazing how Sibyl and Minerva peck at one another. They’re worse than any two first years. But I do have some understanding of what you’ve gone through, and if you need to speak to someone, you should know I am more than willing to listen.”

Remus paused for a moment, gripping his hands into tightly closed fists around the bedsheets, his nails nearly drawing blood from his palms.

“Did you know?” he finally asked. “Did you suspect Sirius was working for… for him?”

Even now, Remus found it difficult to utter Voldemort’s name without shuddering, but Sirius’s had been like swallowing a dagger. Dumbledore sighed once more and pulled drew a chair next to the hospital bed.

“No,” he said firmly. “I was completely stunned when I heard the news about the Potters, and even more so about Peter Pettigrew’s death. I would, and often did, trust him with my life and more importantly the lives of those I most deeply love. In fact, I still do not understand much of what happened.”

“He betrayed us,” Remus said, wishing he could put venom into the words, yet somehow they fell like stones from his mouth, heavy and lifeless. “That’s all I need to understand.”

Dumbledore looked troubled for a moment, but eventually nodded slowly.

“It certainly appears that way,” he agreed.

“Did he even offer an excuse, an alibi, anything?” Remus said, suddenly grasping at straws at the old man’s hesitation.

“No,” Dumbledore replied. “No, he has not attempted to claim innocence at all. He was sentenced to Azkaban yesterday without so much as a word in his own defense or a plea for a trial.”

“Yesterday?” Remus said, turning his head towards Dumbledore with such speed that his head swam from dizziness. “So quickly?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said, and he seemed immeasurably old suddenly. “Things have happened very quickly indeed. Far too quickly for my own taste.”

So, that was it. His lover and mate had killed their best friends and was now serving a life sentence in Azkaban where he would go mad from the Dementors, and then die. Remus would never see him again. The realization hit him all at once, like a kick to the gut, and he gasped on instinct, the air releasing as a thick sob. Somewhere in his mind he was aware of Dumbledore holding his wrist firmly but tenderly, of blue eyes looking at him with compassion, but he found he didn’t care. Remus didn’t care about the gush of tears that came down his face in a torrent, or the sounds of agony, strangely wolfish, that came from his strangling throat. He didn’t care about the pain of opening the newly knitted flesh he had so recently split in his transformation or the scene he was undoubtedly making of himself. He didn’t care that he seemed weak or childish, that he found himself wanting his mother, his friends, to climb into bed and be a little boy again and hide under the sheets until the monsters went away and life was pure and sweet and clean again.

The only thing he could care about was that the man he loved was a murderous traitor, and worse, that part of him still loved Sirius in spite of it. He loathed himself, the feelings welling up from his soul seeming twisted and blackened and obscene, almost blasphemous. But they were what was real, and the wolf within howled for the death of the man it had thought was its mate, for that Sirius was indeed dead.

Through it all, Dumbledore remained silent but steadfast, keeping his hand wrapped around Remus’s wrist, providing a distant grounding to reality. That connection was thin as a kite string, but without it, Remus was unsure he ever would have threaded the paths of the labyrinth that led from darkness back to sanity and daylight.

When he finally stopped screaming, his throat was so raw that he thought it must be bleeding, and his voice was gone entirely. Dumbledore finally withdrew his hand, turning to pour him a glass of water again and pressing it carefully to Remus’s lips. He was grateful for it; he could never have raised the glass himself from pure exhaustion. He sipped delicately, then fell back against the pillow in a deep sleep, never knowing that Dumbledore had slipped a flask of the Draught of Living Death into the water.

The transformation occurred that night as usual, but the werewolf slept on, panting rapidly but never raging as it usually did, let alone unleashing the fury of the previous night. Dumbledore kept watch once again, wand drawn and a stunning spell always on the edge of his lips, but the night passed without incident and the day dawned to find that Remus still slept and his wounds were given a true chance to heal.

After dawn, Dumbledore took the opportunity to return to his quarters and rest for a few hours, getting some much needed sleep. His dreams, however, were troubled, and a face from long ago hovered near him, smiling and laughing until the unthinkable happened, a scream pierced the little house, and the world fell to pieces.

Just after noon, he returned to the hospital wing and uttered the counterspell, waking Remus so that he could eat. They ate together in silence, Remus forcing the sandwich down his throat. As he ate, Dumbledore admitted his ruse.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but I feel you should know that you have essentially lost a day. I gave you a powerful sleeping draught, and the result was a night of nearly uninterrupted rest for you, though I am afraid the side-effects of using it regularly or even twice inside of a short time would prove fatal. I could not, however, let you transform on the most powerful night of the full moon in your condition. I believe the stress of it would have killed you.”

“You drugged me?” Remus said.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said.

“You might have told me,” Remus said.

“And what would your answer have been?” Dumbledore asked, his eyes boring into him again.

Remus knew the answer. He probably would have refused in the hopes that he would die, and the look in Dumbledore’s eyes said that he was aware of it.

“My letter did state that ‘every precaution will be taken so that no one will be harmed.’ That includes yourself, of course,” Dumbledore said, pouring him another cup of tea. “I would be a poor host indeed if I allowed you to come to harm.”

“What if I want to come to harm?” Remus asked him. The question wasn’t melodramatic or sarcastic, but a simple statement that actually seemed to ask for an answer.

Dumbledore looked at him a long time before he spoke, and when the words came, Remus was shocked to hear cracking in his voice.

“I would say that is not unusual given your circumstances,” Dumbledore said. “In fact, I should say it would be most unusual and a cause for greater concern if you felt nothing at all. But that part of it will pass, in time. In its place will come a sort of acceptance, painful but something you can survive, and given enough time, you will find something, one day, that will make you smile again, as utterly impossible as that seems now.”

“I loved him,” Remus admitted. “I still do.”

Dumbledore nodded sadly, then clasped Remus’s hand.

“And I,” he whispered quietly, “still love Gellert at well.”

Remus’s eyes grew large. He’d never considered the possibility that Dumbledore might have been gay as well, let alone in love with the second most feared wizard of all time.

“Yes,” Dumbledore said simply, releasing his hand. “Yes, I know. I know only too well”

Remus stared up at him, stunned but strangely grateful for the revelation.

“You have some few hours until moonrise,” Dumbledore said, rising. “Please, avail yourself of as much rest and refreshment as you can. I shall return for you later to take you back to the Potions Master’s quarters. If you require anything, you need only ask.”

Remus put a hand out to stop him when he started to go, and Dumbledore turned to look at him.

“And you need only ask as well, you know,” Remus said. “You have many friends, and I’m lucky to count myself as one of them. No one should have to carry a burden like this alone.”

Dumbledore’s eyes shone brighter for a moment, and then he smiled.

“Thank you,” he said, patting Remus’s hand. “I thank you very much.”

The transformation that night was not as wild or violent as the previous one had been, but the next morning did find cuts and bruises that still looked as though Remus had been in a particularly bad fight. Dumbledore dressed the wounds himself that day, keeping tactful silence on the conversation of the day before.

They breakfasted in the Great Hall with the few students who remained at Hogwarts, and Remus noted the kindness Dumbledore showed them, taking time to speak with each of them at the single table they all gathered around in the absence of most of the students. He also noticed that the children, in spite of their lonely situation, seemed truly overjoyed by the defeat of Voldemort, and their spirits were high. It was almost enough to make Remus smile, but not yet. Probably not for a long time yet.

After they ate, Dumbledore walked Remus to the front door, carrying with him another phoenix feather.

“This portkey will take you back to your London flat once again,” he said, handing it to him.

“Thank you,” Remus said, “for everything.”

“No trouble at all,” Dumbledore said, smiling. “If you should ever wish to return to Hogwarts for the full moon again, you will be welcome here.”

“I believe I shall,” Remus said. “It’s good to speak with someone who, well…”

“Understands,” Dumbledore finished for him. “Of course.”

“Yes, quite,” Remus agreed.

“Until your next visit, then,” Dumbledore said, raising a hand in farewell as the tug behind Remus’s naval brought him hurtling through time and space back to his flat.

The soft ticking of his Muggle clock was unnaturally loud in the room, and the silence remained oppressive. Remus considered using magic to put his clothes back in the bedroom once more, but after taking a deep breath, he entered the bedroom for the first time since it had happened. The bed was a stark reminder of what had been, the size of it dwarfing him. Somehow, its smooth, bleakly real shape reminded him of a tombstone awaiting an effigy. Steadying himself, he raised his wand.

“ _Reducto_ ,” he said, though his voice shook, and the bed became half its size.

He may have cried as he put his things away, thinking of the soft black hair and barking laugh of the man who had betrayed him, and he knew there would be many more tears in the years ahead, but he had made his decision. He would go on.


End file.
